A goddess should not have to do her own assassinations. But if you want something done correctly, better do it yourself. So here we are again, for maybe the thousandth time. I say “maybe” because I stopped counting after about the three-hundredth reincarnation—a lot of them are a blur. But it always plays out pretty much the same. I awake into a new life and a new body, just in time to figure out who the target is, find all the traps that have been laid, foil them, kill the guy, and then go back to sleep until the next time the world forgets who I am.
It’s the forgetting I can’t stand. The whole point of being a goddess is the active worship. People need to remember and pay me my due respect. Sometimes that means I need to remind them by taking a life. It’s honor me or be killed. Simple. If people didn’t forget, we wouldn’t have to play this out over and over again, would we? So whose fault is that, huh? I refuse to be forgotten, to fall into the undignified realm of myth and legend or worse . . . superhero action movies.
Shudder.
Meanwhile, this host body is a little . . . let’s say, feisty. I can feel her fighting me, trying to regain control. Frankly, it’s sapping my energy and hella irritating. But it’s also what made her a good host in the first place.
Don’t worry, little host. You’ll have your body back as soon as I’m done with my mission. It’ll ruin your life, sure, but what’s one human life when we’re talking about the needs of a goddess? Shh.
“Kala? Kala! Are you listening?”
It’s my mother. This girl’s mother. It always takes a few hours to get used to the host’s name.
“Yes, Ma,” I say.
“I asked what time I’m picking you up today.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the sun shield mirror. I’ve clearly just rolled out of bed. My dark curls are a mess and my eyes are still puffy.
“Don’t you have rehearsal?”
“Right,” I tell Kala’s—my—mother. “That.”
“So?”
I squeeze the memory out of the host. “Six thirty. We’ll be done by then.”
And with any luck, so will I.
It’s great when things are smooth. I figure out which host body has Lakhindar. I find the best and most efficient way to execute him. I’m out of the host before anyone realizes what’s happened. I’m usually long gone before the confusion sets in and the questions begin. Why did this happen? Why would they do this? They were always so quiet. So friendly. No one saw this coming.
But sometimes I stick around long enough for someone to remember my name. They say Manasa, and suddenly they all know who I am, and they understand that these deaths are a consequence of their forgetfulness. They promise to always remember. And then . . .
“Well, get going, then,” my mother says. “You’ll be late.”
I get out of the car, pull my backpack on, and head into the school building. I have never been a high school student before. In New Jersey, no less. Once, I was in New Orleans during Prohibition. Now that was a good time. America in the 1920s was also great for fashion.